


59 Years, 364 Days, and Counting

by lauawill



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauawill/pseuds/lauawill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is having a milestone birthday. He's not quite sure how he feels about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	59 Years, 364 Days, and Counting

**Author's Note:**

> I was sitting at work one day in mid-October when the song "The Pugilist at 59" popped up on the Pandora channel I was listening to. The lyrics were funny and poignant and stuck with me. "Huh. Beltran's 60th birthday is in a few weeks" I thought. "Maybe I could write a story around this song." I woke up a few days later with this in my head. I quickly wrote it and posted it on ffn just before Beltran's 60th birthday on November 19, 2013 -- which happened to also be my husband's birthday, although he was only turning 44. Enjoy.

October 31, 2013

** 59 Years, 364 Days, and Counting **

 

            When he rolls out of bed, he glances at the chrono and realizes the alarm has been screeching for at least five minutes, but he hasn’t heard a thing. He’s been dreaming again – the same dream, the one from early in their journey. The planet, the forest, the bathtub built for two – and, in the dream, the bathtub _occupied_ by two, as it never was in waking life.

            He orders the alarm to reset, sighs, and runs a hand through his gray hair. As he rises, his lower back protests mightily, testament to another restless night on an uncomfortable mattress. Mornings are the worst; his back usually seizes and spasms for a good half hour before it settles down into the dull throb he forces himself to live with. He casts a baleful look at the lumpy old bed.  “Need a new one,” he mutters, “or I’m going to have to start every day in a hoverchair.” Somewhere deep down he’s pretty sure the daily discomfort has as much to do with age and inactivity as anything else. But it’s comforting to blame the bed.

            He staggers across the quiet room in his shorts, his bare feet slapping against the pine floor. In the bathroom, he splashes cool water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror. Long, crooked nose. Large, mismatched ears. Unkempt gray hair. Fading tattoo. Eyes that get a little beadier every day, set into a lined and slack face.

            He plucks at his stubbly jaw with his fingertips.

            “You’re getting jowls,” he groans at his reflection. “You look like Father. You _sound_ like Grandfather. Maybe you _are_ Grandfather.” He cocks his head to one side and blinks at the mirror. “Maybe this is all just some kind of horrible temporal anomaly. If I close my eyes, I’ll wake up on _Voyager_. She’ll be here. And my back won’t hurt.” He closes his eyes, reopens them and sighs at the all-too-familiar face. “Crazy old man, talking to yourself,” he mutters, and shuffles out of the bathroom, headed for the kitchen.

            He starts to make the coffee, but the pot is half-full from the previous day. Three months, and he still can’t break the habit of making enough for two. Meals are all right; habitually cooking for two means he’s got leftovers for subsequent meals. But coffee? Coffee is different. Coffee is special. Coffee has _meaning_.

            He shakes his head at his own sentimentality and dumps the day-old brew into the sink. He starts a new batch, forcing himself to measure carefully this time. “Wouldn’t want to waste any more of it,” he mumbles.

            While he waits for the coffee to brew he rummages in the cold storage for breakfast. Behind the fresh fruit and vegetables he finds a container bearing two slices of pizza, leftover from the last time Tom dropped by to cheer him up. How long ago? Four days? A week? He stares at the pizza, shrugs and begins to nibble at it without bothering to take a plate from the cupboard, standing expectantly beside coffee pot. While he waits, he gazes at the front of the cold storage unit, where he’s placed holoimages of friends and family. Tom and B’Elanna and Miral, now a young teenager, and nine-year-old Owen grin back at him. Naomi Wildman poses in her crisp Cadet’s uniform. Harry and Seven, dressed in formalwear and flanked by Tom and B’Elanna, share their first kiss as husband and wife.

            And Kathryn. She favors him with a crooked smile. The image has caught her as she turns away from the garden and toward the camera, so quickly that her braid, long and gray, is flying out behind her, frozen in a moment in time.

            She’s beautiful. There are laugh lines around her mouth and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, but the smile is still radiant, and the blue eyes still sparkle with warmth and tenderness and love.

            He catches his breath at the fierce ache of longing that lances through him.

            Before he allows himself to give in to the loneliness, the coffee pot sputters and lets out a soft ping to indicate the completion of its solitary task.

            A moment later he’s seated at the table in nothing but his shorts, munching on week-old cold pizza, washing it down with hot coffee – double cream, double sugar. “This is vile,” he gasps around a mouthful of stale crust, but he finishes the pizza anyway, and polishes off the coffee alongside a replicated chocolate croissant. Brushing crumbs from his bare belly, he rises with a hand pressed to his throbbing lower back. He leaves the dishes on the table.

            Back in the bedroom and on his way to the closet for a clean uniform, he catches a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror. Most of himself, anyway. It’s only a full-length mirror for a much shorter person. In order to see all of himself, he backs a step away from it, and then another. As he had in the bathroom moments before, he frowns at his own reflection. He slaps his midsection and watches the flesh quiver. _Doughy_ , he thinks, and, pondering the shapeless gray shorts, _saggy_.

            He drops to the floor, lies down on his back with his knees bent, toes hooked under the bed frame, hands clasped behind his head.

            By the tenth sit-up, he’s panting.

            By the fifteenth, he’s sweating profusely.

            By the twentieth, he’s questioning his own sanity.

            He ponders the bedroom ceiling for a long, quiet moment. “Computer,” he calls, “what time is it?”

            _“The time is now 0647 hours.”_

            More than two hours until his first class begins. Plenty of time.

            He levers himself up off the floor, yanks off the shorts and tosses them on the bed. On the way to the closet he avoids the sight of his own saggy nakedness in the not-quite-full-length mirror.

            After a moment of rummaging through all the various uniforms – Starfleet seems to change the color and the style with maddening frequency – he emerges with an old pair of running shoes.

            He squeezes himself into exercise tights and an “Academy Boxing Club” sweatshirt, yanks on the shoes and sets out into the November fog with determined optimism.

            Sixty minutes later, he’s flat on his back again and pondering the living room ceiling. He wonders how long, if he should succumb to cardiac arrest right now, his body will lie there slowly decomposing before somebody notices his absence.

            Surely his students would miss him.

            He groans. _His students_.

            “Computer,” he croaks, “open a channel to Lieutenant Charan Uppal. Anthropology Department, Starfleet Academy. Audio only.”

            _“Working…”_ the computer replies, and then a lilting male voice: _“Professor Chakotay’s office. Lieutenant Uppal here.”_

            “Hey, Charan,” Chakotay says, wincing at his teaching assistant’s chipper greeting. Uppal is an unapologetic Morning Person. Chakotay is usually a Morning Person, but not today. “Would you mind flying solo in my classes today? I’m not quite feeling like myself this morning.”

            There is an audible gulp on the other end of the comm. _“Sir? Are you all right? You sound…pained.”_

            “I’m fine,” he replies. “Just a little under the weather. Both classes have an exam scheduled for today, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Just monitor the tests as usual. If you think you need help, you can pull another proctor from the departmental pool. Someone should be free.”

            _“Aye, sir,”_ the young man replies, a little shakily. _“What about your office hours, sir?”_

            Chakotay sighs. “I should be free all day tomorrow. If anyone wants to talk, schedule them for a half-hour slot any time after 0900. I won’t be doing anything anyway.”

            _“Aye, sir. I hope you feel better, sir.”_

            “Not likely,” he mutters the instant after the channel closes.

            He continues to lie there, sweating into the carpet, taking inventory of the morning’s damage. His abs hurt from the sit-ups. His feet hurt from the old shoes. His quads and calves hurt from the exertion of running on hills. His knees hurt from the pounding on the pavement…or possibly arthritis. His back hurts from the bed. His neck hurts and he doesn’t even know why.

            His gut hurts from the combination of coffee and croissant and cold, possibly toxic, pizza.

            Everything hurts.

            His _hair_ hurts.

            “That was not my best idea,” he says. His voice echoes in the empty room.

            He rolls his head from side to side to ease the ache in his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the colorful knit blanket thrown over the end of the sofa. With a grunt, he raises his arm from the floor and runs his fingertips over the stitching. If he closes his eyes, he can hear the click of the knitting needles, and then her voice, counting stitches.

            He sighs. It’s a lonely sound. His hand falls back to the carpet and he closes his eyes, listening to his own labored breathing.

            Once his hair, at least, has stopped hurting, he drags himself up off the floor and heads for the bathroom, leaving a trail of sweaty running clothes in his wake.

            The hot shower eases some of his body’s many hurts, although it does nothing for the persistent pain in his chest.

            At 0900, three hours after he almost slept through the alarm, he crawls back into bed, pulls the covers up to his chin and falls into a fitful sleep.

 

=/\=

            Four hours later, the sound of his own stomach growling wakes him up.

            Amid continued protests from his lower back and new, more strident protests from everywhere else, he rises from the bed, pulls on soft pants and a T-shirt, and aims for the kitchen again. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he frowns at his appearance. He’d gotten back into bed with wet hair; now it’s flat one side of his head and a wavy mess on the other. The frown turns to an unconcerned shrug. There’s no one to see it anyway.

            Mindful of the heavy way the coffee and pizza sat on his stomach, he retrieves the fruit and vegetables from the cold storage unit and replicates a handful of crackers and a glass of iced tea to go with them. He eats his late lunch in silence, staring out the kitchen window into the overcast northern California afternoon.

            The trees in the yard have lost their leaves since she’s been gone.

            They stretch their bare, bony fingers toward the gray sky, empty hands grasping at something they desperately want but can never reach.

            Shaking off the melancholy thought, he rises and wanders back to the living room. He leaves the empty dishes on the table beside the breakfast dishes.

            In the living room, he sprawls on the sofa and pulls the knit blanket over his legs. He tries to read but he can’t concentrate on the words. He sets the book aside and asks the computer for music, but it doesn’t bring him any comfort.

            He wants to call her.

            He knows he shouldn’t; she’s working, she won’t appreciate the interruption, she doesn’t have time for him right now.

            And what would he say, anyway?

            _You missed the last of the tomatoes._

            _The first frost was beautiful._

_I built a winter nest box for the wood ducks._

_The days are shorter and the trees are bare and I miss you, Kathryn. Spirits, how I miss you._

            He is halfway across the room and reaching for the comm station when it lights up of its own accord. He holds his breath, hoping against hope, and activates the screen.

            It’s B’Elanna.

            He sinks down into the chair, startled, as always, by the lines on her face. When did they all get so _old?_ “Hey, B’Elanna,” he says.

            She gives him a crooked smile. _“What the hell happened to your hair?”_

            He starts and runs a hand through it self-consciously, mussing it even further. “I took a nap with a wet head. It’s a little…out of control.”

            _“Needs cutting,”_ she says succinctly.

            He nods. “Probably so. What can I do for you?”

            She cocks her head to one side. _“Naomi called a little while ago. You weren’t in your classes today and didn’t sit office hours. Everything all right?”_

            He shrugs. “Just needed a day off.”

            B’Elanna gives him a disbelieving look. _“A day off,”_ she echoes.

            He bristles. “Yes, a day off. Can’t a man just take a day off without everyone getting suspicious?”

            _“Sure, a man can. But a man who usually doesn’t?”_ She shakes her head at him. _“And napping? Since when do you nap? You sure you’re okay?”_

            “I’m fine.”

            _“You don’t sound fine. You don’t_ look _fine.”_

            He scrubs a weary hand over his face and musters a smile for his old friend. “I’m a little…off…today. But it’ll pass.”

            She stares at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. He keeps smiling, hoping she can’t see how forced it is. _“It’s not getting any easier for you, is it?”_

            B’Elanna is nothing if not insightful. His smile fades. “No, it’s not,” he says softly. “In fact… Every day it gets a little harder. Every _hour_.”

            She leans toward him, peering at him from the screen. _“You need to get out.”_

He freezes. The words almost sounded like a threat. She’s made this suggestion at least three times in the last month, and he’s managed to beg off every time. “No, I don’t. I’m fine.”

            _“Miral’s got the rest of the afternoon off school. Why don’t you come on over? We’ll find something to do and then we’ll take you out for dinner.”_

            He hooks his thumb toward the back door. “I have yardwork,” he says vaguely. “Raking.”

            She snorts. _“Raking. My ass. Put some decent clothes on and get over here.”_

            “No.”

            _“Put some decent clothes on and get over here, or I’ll send Miral to get you.”_

            His eyes widen. Practically since birth, Miral Paris has been able to get her favorite Uncle to do virtually anything and everything, and everyone within their circle of friends knows it. “No! I’m fine. I just need the day to--”

            B’Elanna turns away from the screen. _“Miral!”_ she bellows. _“You’re beaming over to kick your Uncle’s butt, and then we’re all going into the city!”_

            The girl’s answering shout is pure Tom Paris. _“Hot dog!”_

            Chakotay groans. “B’Ela, why can’t you just leave things alone?”

            _“Because I’m an engineer, Old Man. I see something broken, I fix it. Now pull yourself together. We’re going to have fun.”_

            “Enforced fun. Sounds charming.”

            Her face softens a fraction. _“Kathryn wouldn’t like if she knew you were wallowing this way. And she’d come at me with a phaser rifle if I didn’t do something about it. So be good for Miral and put on something nice. I’ll beam you both back here in half an hour.”_ She glowers at him. _“And do something about your damn hair.”_

            With a faint pop, the screen goes dark.

            Half a minute later, there’s the whine of a transport in progress, followed by a vigorous knock on the front door.

            He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the onslaught. “Come on in, Miral.”

            The front door slams open and Miral Paris, a fourteen-year-old force of nature, sails in under full impulse power, reddish-brown curls flying. She leaps to his chair, throws her arms around his neck and kisses both his cheeks. “Hello, Uncle,” she beams, and before he can respond, she continues. “Mom says you’re depressed because of tomorrow and because Auntie Kathryn is gone and we need to cheer you up so we’re going into the city for the rest of the day and then dinner.”

            “I’m not depressed,” he protests, but she continues as if she hasn’t heard him. And, he reflects, she probably hasn’t.

            “So I’m supposed to clean you up and get you out of…this whatever this is,” she waves at his sweats and T-shirt, “and into real clothes in half an hour.” She grabs both his hands and yanks him up from his chair, eyeing him skeptically. “I’m not sure half an hour is enough to fix this, so you better snap to it, Mister.”

            “But--”

            “I mean it.” She ducks around behind him and shoves him in the general direction of the bedroom. “Out of the I’ve-given-up-on-life outfit and into something decent. March!”

            He marches, bewildered by the afternoon’s sudden turn of events but amused just the same. While he’s staring into the closet trying to determine what Miral means by “decent clothes,” he hears her stalking around the living room.

            “ _Kahless,_ what the heck is _this_?” she shouts. “Oh gods, it’s _sweaty_!”

            He chuckles. She must have just found the running clothes he dropped on the living room floor.

            “Auntie Kathryn wouldn’t like this, you know,” the girl continues. “Dad would ground me if I left our living room this messy. Your refresher is in the bathroom, right? Ugh, I should get extra allowance for this.”

            “You could have just left it all there, Miral,” he offers, tucking a blue denim shirt into an old pair of work pants. “I’m here by myself anyway. And I can clean up my own messes.”

            “Can you?” she snorts. “Have you _seen_ what’s in your kitchen?”

            He follows the sound of clattering tableware down the hall and finds her dumping his dirty breakfast and lunch dishes into the recycler. When she wipes her hands on her pants and turns around, he holds out his arms in a gesture of presentation. “Well?” he asks.

            She eyes him up and down shakes her head. “Oh _hell_ no.”

            “Miral!”

            “Nope. Mom would kill me if I let you out like that,” she says, and brushes past him on her way back to the bedroom. He sighs and tags along behind her.

            She twitches aside all the uniforms in the closet and yanks out a tailored pair of dark jeans, a deep red shirt with gold buttons and a brown sport coat. “Here. This will work. Auntie Kathryn told me once she likes the way you look in this coat. Something about shoulders to die for.”

            “But Kathryn’s gone,” he reminds her.

            Miral shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you can’t try to look good for the rest of us.”

            He cocks an eyebrow at her. “The rest of you?”

            She blinks innocently. “Mom and me. You know.”

            He begins to suspect that something is going on, something he isn’t supposed to know about.  He holds the hangers with the clothes in front of his body in an unconsciously defensive gesture.  “Miral… Where are your Dad and your brother today?”

            “Running an errand. They had to go pick something up for Mom. They’ll meet us for dinner.” She turns and darts from the room before he can press her for more details. “Where’s your comb? You _do_ have a comb, don’t you?” she teases, and ducks into the bathroom.

            Certain that he’s just opened himself up to an afternoon of trouble, he slips on the approved clothing, adds a belt and shoes, and shrugs into the sport coat. When he catches his reflection in the mirror this time, he actually smiles a little. The jeans hide the saggy bits, and the coat does emphasize his already broad shoulders.

            He presents himself in the living room again.

            Wordlessly, Miral hands him a comb.

            He runs it through his hair, slicking the wavy gray mass of it back and behind his ears. “Better?”

            The girl squints at him for a moment, and then smiles. “Lookin’ good, Old Man,” she says. He grins. She sounds exactly like her mother.

            With barely a moment to spare, he is dressed and combed and standing on the front porch with Miral, waiting to be transported to the Paris house and on to the city. Just before the beam takes them, Miral slips her hand into his the way she used to when she was small. She hasn’t done this for years, and his heart swells at the gesture.

 

=/\=

             

            The sun sets early on the California coast, and by 1730 they’re strolling the city streets in near-total darkness.

            It’s been a pleasant enough afternoon. They’ve ducked in and out of shops, picking up gifts for young Owen’s upcoming birthday and the annual Prixin party planned for late December. With a bat of her long eyelashes, Miral has convinced him it’s acceptable to pick up new carving tools for himself, and B’Elanna, having heard the story of the ill-fated jog, has made him order new running shoes. He hates to admit it to himself, but the way B’Elanna and Miral dote on him has kept the worst of his melancholy at bay for a few hours.

            B’Elanna’s arm is looped through his in a way that reminds him of Kathryn. He carries a shopping bag in his free hand. It’s filled with the carving tools, and alongside them a half dozen rare books of poetry, a silk scarf and a delicate silver necklace, gifts that he will need to either pack and send through Starfleet channels so that they arrive by the Prixin holiday, or keep in reserve until late February when he can present them in person.

            Late February. Three months. More than twelve weeks. His improved mood beginning to evaporate, Chakotay sighs at the prospect.

            B’Elanna squeezes his arm. “You’ve been doing that all afternoon.”

            “What?”

            “Sighing.”

            “Have I?”

            She hums an affirmation. “You sure you’re okay?” He says nothing. “You miss her.”

            “I always miss her when she’s gone.”

            “You said it’s getting harder.”

            He counts the cracks in the sidewalk as they stroll along. “It is. I think…I think maybe this is the most difficult one yet. I didn’t want to let her go.”

            B’Elanna leans her head against his shoulder. “Six months is a long time. And tomorrow…”

            He shrugs. “It’s not the first time she’s missed my birthday. I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

            “But it hurts, doesn’t it? A milestone birthday, too.”

            He elbows her lightly. “Don’t remind me.”

            She hugs his arm. “You’re not getting older, you’re getting better.”

            “Tell that to my back,” he mutters.

            They stroll along in silence for a time, Miral darting ahead of them to peek in shop windows. B’Elanna shifts her shopping bag higher on her own shoulder. “Have you talked to Kathryn about how you feel?”

            He shakes his head. “Not really. I don’t want to bother her.”

            She makes an impatient sound in the back of her throat. “You know you’re no bother to her.”

            “Not yet, anyway. I’m afraid I would be if I asked to renegotiate our agreement.”

            B’Elanna laughs. “You make it sound like a diplomatic treaty.”

            He smiles, remembering. “It almost was. This compromise… It’s the only way we could make this work for both of us.”

            “But it isn’t working for you anymore, and you need to tell her.”

            “I can’t.”

            “Why not?” she demands. When he doesn’t answer, she stops walking and swings him around to face her, her hands gripping his shoulders. Miral looks back, her whole face a question, but B’Elanna waves her on. “Why can’t you tell her, Chakotay?”

            He stares at her in the gathering shadows, unable to form the words.

            “You’re still afraid that if you push, you’ll lose her. Aren’t you?” She shakes him a little, and he nods. “Damn it all, Chakotay. After all these years, I think you can stop being so selfless and noble.”

            He stands up a little straighter. “What are you trying to say? Do you think I just let her walk all over me? Because I don’t. You know me better than that.”

            “You’re right. I do. But I also know _her_ better than you’ve ever been willing to admit. And I’m telling you: You need to talk to her about this.”

            He stands very still, almost unable to breathe. “What do you know, B’Ela? Has she talked to you?”

            She thumps his chest with her little fist. “This is what I _mean_ , you stubborn _p’taQ_. The two of you need to stop negotiating by proxy and talk to _each other_.”

            He steps around her and heads up the street again. “It would be easier if she were home more than a few months at a time,” he grumbles.

            “Hey!” B’Elanna shouts, darting after him. “Is that resentment I hear?”

            “No!” He stalks away from her. “Maybe. Damn it all.” He stops and runs a hand through his hair, mussing it almost beyond repair.

            She catches up to him. “You’ve been miserable for weeks, Chakotay. Miserable. We can all see it. You’ve turned down every invitation to get out, you barely spoke to Tom when he stopped by last week, and now you’re skipping your classes. What the hell is the matter with you?”

            At the anger in her voice, or maybe the compassion, something in him breaks wide open. He turns on her, his face dark. “All right, I’ll tell you. I miss her. I miss her so much I don’t even know what to do with myself anymore. I want her to come home, maybe to stay this time. But I don’t want her to feel trapped, and more than anything I don’t want to lose her. This arrangement we have has worked for us for almost ten years. I stay here and teach full-time, she works at Headquarters part time and spends the rest of the year in space. It’s what we both needed, and I feel like a foolish and clingy old man for wanting more. But she’s only been gone for three months this time, and I’m already lonely and depressed, and--”

            He stops and sucks in a great lungful of air, almost gasping for breath as the final suppressed shard of emotion breaks free. “And I’m going to turn sixty tomorrow. And she’s not here. She’s not here, and I’m sixty years old. Sixty! When the hell did that happen, B’Elanna?”

            B’Elanna swallows hard, watching him. “I don’t know, Chakotay,” she whispers.

            “I don’t either. And I don’t like it.” He takes a few angry paces away from her. “Sixty. I’ve known it was coming. I thought I was prepared for it. It’s just a number, right? Today I’m fifty-nine years and three hundred sixty-four days old. Tomorrow? Sixty years. It’s nothing.”

            “But it doesn’t feel like nothing, does it?”

            “No. It feels like an ending. A quiet surrender. The closing of a door.” Suddenly exhausted, he leans against a building and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You know, I realized yesterday that I’m almost as old as my Father was when he died. I look in the mirror and I see him. Hell, I see my _Grandfather_. I don’t see myself anymore.” He closes his eyes.

            B’Elanna’s silence unnerves him, until she sniffles and steps forward and wraps her arms around him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you like that.”

            He wants to stay angry at her, just to feel something other than the loneliness and depression he’s felt for the last few weeks. But he can never stay mad at B’Elanna for long, and so he hugs her tight. “I guess I needed it.” He kisses the top of her head. “And I need her to come home. I don’t know if I can tell her that. I don’t know how to say it, and I don’t know how she’ll react.”

            “But you have to tell her. You need to find the words.”

            “I know.”

            She tilts her face up and gives him a pointed, piercing look. “You might find out that she’s been feeling the same way.”

            Puzzled, he frowns at her. “What makes you say that?”

            She shrugs and glances up the dark street. “Just a hunch.”

            “B’Ela…” he sighs. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

            She gives him a cryptic smile. “Just promise me you’ll talk to her.”

            Knowing he’s unlikely to get anything more out of her,  he relents. “All right. I’ll talk to her. I have no idea what I’ll say, but I’ll talk to her.”

            “First chance you get?”

            “First chance. I promise.”

            She thumps his chest with her fist again. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

            “I’d expect nothing less.”

            She pauses, staring up at him, and then takes his face in both hands. “And don’t you sell yourself short, my friend. On you, sixty _is_ just a number. Because I don’t see your father when I look at you, and I sure as hell don’t see anyone I could call ‘Grandfather.’ I only see the strong man who rescued me when I’d lost hope of ever being rescued, who believed in me when I didn’t believe in anything, much less myself, and who kept me as safe as he could in a part of the Universe that was determined to kill us all.”

            He ducks his head to hide his emotion. “B’Ela…”

            “I see the good man who gave my husband a second chance, and the gentle man who loves my kids as if they were his own.” She stands on tiptoe to kiss both his cheeks. “I see my brother, Chakotay. It’s what I’ve always seen when I look at you. Oh, I see the gray hair and the paunch you’re trying to hide, too.” He grins at her. “But mostly, I see _you_.”

            He hugs her tight. “Thanks, B’Elanna,” he whispers. “I love you. I probably haven’t said it enough over the years, but I do.”

            “It’s all right. I’ve always known. Believe me, Chakotay. The people you love? They _know_ they’re loved. Even if they don’t want to admit it for seven years.” He chuckles softly. She snuggles into him for another moment, then breaks free. “Okay?”

            “Okay.”

            B’Elanna nods decisively and he tucks her hand back into the crook of his elbow. Half a block ahead of them, Miral looks back. She searches their faces, sees the signs she was looking for and smiles. With a nod of her own, she disappears around a corner.

            B’Elanna elbows him lightly in the ribs. “You know, Chakotay, you and Kathryn just kill me sometimes.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “For seven years we listened to you talk about anything and everything. Pets you had as kids, Neelix’s horrible food, how much you both missed your families.  You talked about everything but the one thing that probably mattered the most to both of you.”

            “Because we couldn’t,” he reminds her.

            “Maybe. But you’ve been together for almost ten years, and in a way, you’re still not talking about it. You have this weird, arbitrary arrangement, and it’s almost like you’ve agreed not to talk about it anymore. You’re together and everything’s wonderful, then she’s gone and you’re both miserable, and you don’t talk about it.”

            He stops walking. “Both?” When she starts and tries to break free, he pulls her back to him. “We’re both miserable? What’s going on, B’Elanna?”

            She bites her lip. Then she sighs and grasps the lapels of his coat. “Look. I can’t tell you. You’re going to have to trust me for about five more minutes. Then you’ll know everything. Okay? Five more minutes.”

            “Damn it, B’Elanna!”

            She flinches a little at his tone of voice. “Just trust me, Chakotay. It’s all going to be okay, but you have to trust me.” She glances behind her at a particular doorway and smiles. “And we’re here.”

            He gives the restaurant door a wary look. “Please tell me there’s not a crowd of people waiting to jump out and yell ‘Surprise!’ Because if there is…”

            B’Elanna laughs. “No, we learned our lesson on your fiftieth birthday, my friend. We had it all planned out perfectly. We just made the mistake of sending Kathryn to distract you.”

            He’s glad the darkness hides his blush. “She distracted me all right.”

            “And _we_ got the surprise of our lives.” She shakes her head. “Everybody made Tom and Harry and me swear we’d never try anything like that again.”

            “Good.”

            “So this is just a dinner party with friends. But we’re about to be late.” She grabs his hand and drags him into the restaurant behind her. “Come on, Old Man.”

            The Mexican restaurant is small and cozy, and filled to the rafters with _Voyager_ personnel and their families, some of whom he hasn’t seen in years. They all turn when he enters and begin to hail him with wide smiles and birthday wishes. Ayala and his younger son are there, and with them, Mike’s second wife and two dark-haired, dark-eyed little girls. Tuvok and T’Pel nod at him from across the room. Harry, his arm around his wife, raises a margarita glass in salute. Seven gives him a once-over that makes him blush all over again, and then smirks at him. The Doc snaps an image of him before he can protest, and Billy Telfer and Tal Celes wave at him from the bar. Noah Lessing and Vorik look up from their chess game long enough to each give him a brief nod. The Wildman adults both wave, and Cadet Naomi gives him an apprehensive look. He smiles and winks at her. _No hard feelings._ Sue Nicoletti blows him a kiss.

            Chakotay finds himself lifted up by their sincere goodwill. He allows himself to be steered into hearty handshakes and warm embraces – and from the Delaney sisters, birthday kisses that he won’t soon forget. The loneliness of the day begins to ease just a little.

            He loses track of B’Elanna and Miral for a moment, but when he hears the sound of flatware being tapped against a glass, he looks up and finds them flanking Tom Paris near the restaurant’s back door.

            “If I could have everyone’s attention for a minute?” Tom calls. “Everybody?”

            There’s a slight lull in the conversation, but not enough to ensure that Tom will be heard clearly. Miral, standing to her father’s left, puts her forefingers to her lips and whistles so loudly Chakotay thinks they probably heard it in Alameda. “Hey,” she bellows. “Dad’s talking. Listen up!”

            Everyone quiets. Chakotay meets B’Elanna’s eyes and smirks. She shrugs and shakes her head. _Like mother, like daughter._

            Somebody presses a margarita glass into Chakotay’s hand as Tom clears his throat. “So I guess we all know why we’re here,” Tom begins, beaming. “My lovely daughter Miral has been asked out on her first date.”

            “DAD!” the girl roars over the sound of everyone’s quiet laughter.

            Tom waves his hands for quiet. “Okay, okay. I’m just kidding about that. Although Mario Ayala?” He points into the crowd. “I’m watching you.”

            Miral puts her hand over her eyes. “Somebody just shoot me.”

             “So, anyway,” Tom continues. “We know why we’re here.” He raises his glass. “To the Professor. The Big Guy. The Old Man.” A chuckle rises up from the assembled crew. Chakotay rolls his eyes but refuses to let Tom’s dig, which never bothers him from B’Elanna or Miral, get to him. “For years, you’ve been our reliable port in the storm. You’ve counseled us, cajoled us, and comforted us. You’ve opened your home to many of us, sometimes against your better judgment, and even bailed some of us out, which was definitely against your better judgment in at least one case.” Chakotay chuckles in spite of himself. Tom raises his glass higher. “To Chakotay, who turns sixty tomorrow. Happy Birthday, old friend. Here’s to sixty more.”

            “Hear, hear!” Chakotay recognizes Ken Dalby’s voice from the back of the room.

            He sips his margarita, mindful of all the hands patting him on the back. In the silence that follows the toast, Chakotay speaks up. “Thank you for this, all of you. I wasn’t expecting anything like this. To be honest, I was trying to forget about this particular birthday.” When the ripple of laughter dies down, he squares his shoulders and speaks again. “As some of you know, I’ve been…a little down lately. But this…” He shakes his head. “This has helped more than you know. You’ve reminded me that, just like we were never alone out there, I’m not alone here.” He fumbles for something more to say and settles on simple sincerity. “I’m touched. Thank you.”

            He assumes that dinner will be served shortly and starts to look for an empty chair, but then he notices that no one else has moved, and the smiles of the people around him have changed somehow. There’s suddenly an anticipatory feel to the gathering. He looks up.

            B’Elanna raises her voice this time. “Chakotay,” she begins, “we know that if we had told you about our plans for tonight, you would have reluctantly agreed even if it wasn’t what you wanted. But you would have said ‘no presents,’ and we decided to honor that. Or at least, we tried.”

            Chakotay raises his eyebrows at her.

            She grins. “Somebody else had other ideas.” She glances to the door at the back of the restaurant. “Owen?”

            Chakotay realizes then that the Paris boy has been absent from the gathering, just as he emerges from the kitchen with a wide grin on his round young face. “Hey, Uncle,” he calls. “Look what I found!” He reaches back for someone’s hand.

            Just for an instant, Chakotay can’t breathe.

            Her hair is in the same gray braid from the image on his refrigerator. The smile is the same, too, and the eyes – sparkling with tenderness and love.

            Someone has the presence of mind to rescue the glass from his shaking hand.

            With every step across the room, a few of the fifty-nine years and three hundred sixty-four days fall away. He’s fifty-six now, meeting her at the shuttle port after she’s spent the summer on Vulcan. He’s fifty-four, smiling as she slips into the back of his classroom to listen to his lecture. He’s fifty-two, standing on the front porch of the home they’ve just bought together.

            He’s fifty, taking her in his arms for the first time, marveling at the wonder of it all and trying desperately to go slowly, to savor the moment.

            He’s forty-seven, walking away from _Voyager_ , terrified that he’s lost her forever.

            He’s forty-three, staring at her over a glass of champagne, trying to memorize everything about her on the day he almost _did_ lose her forever.

            He’s forty-two, fumbling for the words to tell her how much he loves her without scaring her away.

            He’s forty, gazing down into unflinching blue eyes, feeling all the fight drain out of him but aware of his heart still pounding against his ribs.

            “Kathryn,” he sighs, and wraps his arms around her. “Kathryn.”

            She holds him tight, her body a familiar paradox of softness and strength. “Chakotay.”

            He turns so his back is to the room, shielding them both from the eyes of their crew. It’s an old habit, but one that’s been difficult for him to break. He leans down far enough to kiss her. He flicks his tongue against her lips and tastes the salt of tears – his or hers, he’s not sure. When he’s out of breath, he folds her in his arms again. “What are you doing here, Kathryn?”

            Her small hands reach inside his coat to stroke his back. “I missed you. I decided to come home.”

            “Thank you,” he murmurs into her hair. “I’ve missed you, too. More than you know. I’m glad you’re here. For however long you’re here.”

            She draws back to look up at him. “About that…” she begins.

            The apprehension on her beloved face nearly stops his heart. “What is it, Kathryn?”

            “I gave up the assignment.”

            “Why?”

             She hesitates, then forges ahead in a rush of words. “I was miserable out there. I didn’t even really want to go, but I did, and inside a week I was ready to come home. I don’t know what was different this time, but something definitely was. I kept forgetting things, my mind kept wandering during the meetings… My heart just wasn’t in it anymore.”

            He frames her face in both hands. “But you belong in space.”

            She shakes her head, her blue eyes wide. “Maybe I did. Maybe a part of me still does. But something in me is changing, and now I belong with you. I stuck it out for two more months, then I asked Admiral Paris to send a replacement and called Tom and B’Elanna for a rescue.”

            Chakotay smiles as B’Elanna’s words finally click into context. Kathryn has been talking to their former engineer, not to him. He’s a little hurt, but at least she’s been talking to _someone_. “I’m glad you did.”

            Kathryn bites her lip. “I want to come home to stay. But only if you want that, too.”

            “Oh, Kathryn.” He bends low to kiss her forehead. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

            “Because it’s not what we decided. I know you value your time alone, and--”

            “No.” He grasps her upper arms and sets her away from him, just a little. “That was almost ten years ago. I’ve changed, too. I don’t value my time alone so much that I wouldn’t want you there. I’ve been a mess without you.” He grins. “Just ask Miral. She cleaned up the house today because I think she knew you were coming home.”

            “Sloppiness isn’t like you.”

            “I know. Neither is skipping classes…or eating cold pizza in my underwear.”

            She snorts and leans her head against his chest. “I’m sorry I missed that. Or maybe I’m not.” With a contented sigh, she wraps her arms around him again. “So what now?”

            He smiles against her hair. “You want to renegotiate our arrangement, Admiral?”

            She hugs him tight. “As soon as we get home, Professor. But only if we can get a new bed. That lumpy old thing kills my back.”

            He laughs and laughs. It feels good. It feels like the first time he’s done so in months.

            Fifty-nine years, three hundred sixty-four days, and counting.

            _Sixty_ years.

            It’s not so bad.

 

**-THE END-**


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